In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [56]
The night train travelling north to Huntsville contains a regatta crowd – men in straw boaters and silk scarves jubilant around him. They weave towards the sleeping cars, passing Patrick who stands in the corridor, their drunk bodies brushing against him. He gazes through his reflection, hypnotized by the manic parade of sky and rock and tree and moon. No resolution or pause. Alice.… He breathes out a dead name. Only a dead name is permanent.
Rectangles of light sweep along the earth. He walks to the end of the corridor, opens the door, and stands in the no man’s land between carriages, holding onto the stiff accordion-like walls, within the violent rattle of the train.
Alice had an idea, a cause in her eye about wealth and power, forever and ever. And at the end as she turned round to him on the street hearing her name yelled, surprised at Patrick being near, there was nothing completed or attained. And he could think of nothing but the eyes looking for him above the terrible wound suddenly appearing as she turned.
They arrive in Huntsville at three in the morning. Patrick watches a porter travel the corridor of sleeping berths, tagging the shoes left out to be cleaned, and return a few minutes later with a sack into which he throws them all. The passengers will not be awakened until seven.
The stewards sit on the steps of the train polishing shoes. They speak quietly, smoking cigarettes. Patrick sees them in the yellow spray of the station lamp. He strolls to the end of the platform where there is darkness. Bush. He feels transparent, minuscule. Civilization now, on this August night, is two men cleaning shoes as they sit on the steps of a train. He looks at them from the darkness. He has walked through the pools of light hanging over this platform and light has not attached itself to him. Walking through rain would have left him wet. But light, or a man polishing one tan shoe at four A.M., is only an idea. And this will not convert Patrick, whose loss creates venom. At times like this he could put his hand under the wheel of a train to spite the driver. He could pick up a porcupine and thrash it against the fence not caring how many quills were flung into his hands and neck in retaliation.
At eight A.M. the passengers walk from the train, sleepy, dazed by their own movement, to the dock belonging to the Huntsville and Lake-of-Bays Navigation Company. Patrick carries his fragile suitcase and boards The Algonquin steamer.
Most of the regatta crowd will be guests at either Bigwin Inn or the Muskoka Hotel. Patrick watches the scenery as the boat passes the thick-treed islands. Now and then there is a clearing of lawn imposed on the landscape. The setting seems strangely spartan to attract so many wealthy people, to be the playground of the rich. He finds a deck-chair and sleeps, and even in sleep his hand clutches the suitcase. He wakes to every hoot of the whistle as the boat winds its way through North Portage. When they pass Bigwin Island, they are greeted by the Anglo-Canadian Band playing on the rock promontory – tubas, trumpets, violins, and various other instruments. Patrick waves along with the others. He will not be coming back this way. He might as well wave now.
In the Garden of the Blind, on Page Island, a stone cherub holds out a hand from which water leaps up into the air. A tree full of birds spreads itself high over the southern area of the lawn. There is a falling of sounds – bird-calls like drops of water – onto the blind woman sitting there. Seeds float down onto the gravel borders, a sound path for those walking without sight. On one of the benches, under the tree, Patrick sits reading the newspaper.
If he closes his eyes, these noises will overpower him, in the way he imagines the cherub accepts that water which leaps from his palm into air and then falls back onto his face. He watches a bird dart. The woman on his right hears